[image]"'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"CHAPTER XVIOLIVER THE CONQUEROR"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burnsStar-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."* * * * *"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."* * * * *"There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary are at rest.""Cheer up, Jane! You and Lord Neville will yet arrive at the height of your wishes. This is my judgment, and if it be not true, you may burn me in the ear for a rogue.""And you will marry Cymlin?""Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall not; perhaps 'tis time enough next year to consider on it.""It would be a happy marriage.""A happy marriage would be so much of heaven that I think it was never enjoyed in this world. 'Tis a weary world, I swear I often cry for myself in it.""But you will marry Cymlin?""Faith, I know not how I am to help the catastrophe! But in all sobriety, I think Cymlin loves me, and you do, too, dear Jane! Oh, I could weep my eyes dry when I think of your dear lover, and all he has so innocently suffered. It is intolerable!"In her way, Matilda was doing her best to console and encourage Jane as they talked over the sad fate of her rescued lover. Both had been weeping, and there was a more affectionate confidence between them than had existed for many years.But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness by her prompt action in the matter of Lord Neville, and Jane had been loving and praising her for it, until the sweetness of their first affection was between them. And Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of her kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or little of what she had done, or of its results."For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a moment's peace, after hearing where the jewels were. I said to myself, this is the clue to Neville's fate, and it must be followed. Though my uncle would not interfere, I was resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and as I knew no one in the world would dare to question him but Cromwell, I went to Cromwell.""It was a wonderful thing for you to do.""It was; I must give myself so much credit. Not that I am afraid of Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a great humiliation.""Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that.""He behaved very well. He knew I had had a share in every plot against him; and he gave me one look so swift, so searching, and so full of reproach, that it sticks like an arrow in my heart yet. But there were old memories between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with me. I will never try to injure him again,—never!""It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I are to you; I think no other woman in England would have been so forgetful of herself, and so brave for others.""Perhaps not, Jane. But I love you, and I love justice and mercy, even to an enemy. I can always be brave with a good reason. And, pray, how comes my lord on towards recovery?""Slowly. Life was nearly gone; body and mind were at death's door; but he can walk a little now, and in two or three weeks we are going away,—far away,—we are going to my brothers in the Massachusetts Colony.""Jane Swaffham! I will not believe you! And pray what shall I do? You shall not think of such a thing.""It is necessary. Cluny's mental sufferings have made it so. When he was first imprisoned he tried to write, to compose hymns and essays, to make speeches, to talk aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep control of himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one idea,—space without end. The rooms are too small. He walks to the walls and trembles. He throws open the doors and windows that he may have room to breathe. In the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if he were smothering. If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the gates; and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds passing fills him with fear and anxiety. He wants to go where there are no limits, no men who may hate and imprison him; and his physician says, 'Let him live for weeks, or months, out on the ocean.' This is what he needs, and he is eager to get away.""You will come back?""I think it is unlikely. Father feels a change approaching. The Protector's health is failing rapidly; he is dying, Matilda, dying of the injustice and ingratitude he meets on every hand. 'Wounded,' yes slain, 'in the house of my friends,' is his constant cry.""'Tis most strange that a man of war like Oliver Cromwell should care what his friends think or say.""Yet he does. When he speaks to father about Harrison, Lambert, Alured, Overton and others of his old companions, he wrings his hands and weeps like a woman; or else he protests against them in such angry sorrow as distresses one to see and hear it.""He ought to know that he has been raised above the love of men who are less noble than himself, and that if beyond and above their love, then they will hate and abuse him. If he dies?——""Father will leave England as soon as Cromwell is in his grave. Cymlin will keep old Swaffham fair, for Cymlin will never leave England while you are in it.""And you can bear to talk of leaving England in that calm way, without tears and without regrets. Jane, it is shameful; it is really wicked.""I do not leave England without tears and regrets, but there is Cluny, and——""Cluny, of course. I suppose you will be married before you leave. But I have a mind not to be your bridesmaid, though I am promised to that office ever since I was a maid in ankle tights.""Dear Matilda, do not be angry at me because I had to do what I had to do. I was married to Cluny three days after he came home. We all thought he was going to die, and he wished me to be his wife.""Why was I not sent for? I would have come, Jane. It was cruel wrong in you to pass me by.""We were married by Doctor Verity at Cluny's bedside. No one was present but my father and mother and the three servants to whom Cluny had become accustomed. He was then frightened at every strange face.""After this, nothing can astonish me. I was not a stranger——""He would not have recognised you, then.""How could he lose himself so far? He ought to have had more courage. Why did he not do something or other?""Oh, Matilda, what would you have done in a room eight feet by ten, and in the dark most of the time—your bread and water given without a word—your attendant deaf and dumb to you—no way to tell the passage of time—no way of knowing how the seasons went, but by the more severe cold—if you had been, like Cluny, really buried alive, what would you have done?""I would have died.""Cluny composed psalms and hymns, and tried to sing; he did not lose heart or hope quite, the gaoler told father, for nearly four years. Then his health and strength gave out, and his heart failed, but he never ceased praying. They heard him at midnight, but Cluny did not know what hour it was. And to the last moment he kept his faith in God. He was sure God would deliver him, though He sent an angel to open the prison doors. He was expecting deliverance the day it came. He had had a message from beyond, and his mother had brought it. Now did I not do right to marry him when, and how, he wished?""Yes," she answered, but her face and voice showed her to be painfully affected. "Jane, I cannot bear to lose you. I shall have no one to love me, no one to quarrel with," she added."You will have Cymlin.""Cymlin is Cymlin; he is not you. I will say no more. When a woman is married, all is over. She must tag after her lord, even over seas and into barbarous places. If the Indians kill you, it will be said that you were in the way of duty; but I have noticed how often people take the way they want to take, and then call it the way of Duty. I shall not marry Cymlin until he can show me the way of peace and pleasantness."Then Jane rose to go, and Matilda tied her bonnet-strings, and straightened out her ribbons and her gloves, doing these trifling services with a long-absent tenderness that filled Jane's heart with pleasure. "Good-bye, dear!" she said with a kiss; "I will come as often as I can.""Very kind of you, Lady Neville," answered Matilda with a curtsy and a tearful mockery; "very kind indeed! But will your ladyship consider—" then she broke down and threw her arms round Jane, and called her "a dear, sweet, little Baggage" and bade her give Cluny some messages of hope and congratulation, and so parted with her in a strange access of affection. But true friendship has these moods of the individual and would not be true without them.Jane walked home through the city, and its busy turmoil struck her as never before. What a vain show it was!—a passing show, constantly changing. And suddenly there was the galloping of horsemen, and the crowd stood still, and drew a little aside, while Cromwell, at the head of his guards, rode at an easy canter down the street. Every man bared his head as the grand, soldierly figure passed by. He saw Jane, and a swift smile chased away for a moment the sorrowful gravity of his face. But he left behind him a penetrating atmosphere of coming calamity. All souls sensitive to spiritual influences went onward with a sigh, and the clairvoyant saw—as George Fox did—the wraith of fast approaching affliction. The man was armed from head to feet, and his sword had never failed him, but it was not with flesh and blood he had now to contend. The awful shadows of the supernatural world darkened the daylight round him, and people saw his sad face and form as through a mist, dimly feeling all the chill foreboding of something uncertain, yet of certain fatality.His glorious life was closing like a brilliant sun setting in a stormy sky. He had been recently compelled to tell his last Parliament some bitter truths, for danger was pressing on every side. Protestants in the Grisons, in Piedmont and Switzerland, were a prey to the Spanish papists, and their helper, Pope Alexander the Seventh, and the Protestant Dutch—preferring profit to godliness—were providing ships to transport Charles Stuart and his army to English soil."The Marquis of Ormond, well disguised, was here on Charles Stuart's interest, only yesterday morning," he said to them. "I did send for Lord Broghill, and I said to him, 'There is an old friend of yours lodging in Drury Lane at the papist surgeon's. It would be well for him if he were gone.' And gone he is." Then with withering scorn he added, "All this is your doing. You will have everything too high or too low. You don't want a settlement. You are tampering with the army. You are playing the King of Scot's game, helping him in his plans of invasion. You have put petitions through the city to draw London into rebellion. You are plotting for a Restoration. I know these things, I do know them, and I say you have laid upon me a burden too heavy for any poor creature. For I sought not this place. You sought me for it. You brought me to it. I say this before God, angels and men! But I took my oath to see all men preserved in their rights, and by the grace of God I will—I must—see it done. And let God be judge between you and me!"Many cried "Amen," as they filed out of the ancient halls, chagrined and troubled under his stinging rebuke. And Cromwell felt for the first time the full weight of the refractory kingdom whose government he must bear alone.He was right; it was too heavy a burden for any one man, and the burden was made still more heavy by his family afflictions. His beloved mother had left him, gone the way of all the earth, saying with her last breath, "I leave my heart with thee, dear son! a good-night!" His son-in-law, Rich, the three months' bridegroom of his "little Frankie," was but a few weeks dead, and the Earl of Warwick, his firmest friend among the nobility, was dying. His favourite daughter, Elizabeth, was very ill, and he himself was feeling unmistakable premonitions of his dissolution. For, day by day, his soul was freeing itself from the ligaments of the body, rising into a finer air, seeing right and wrong with the eyes of immortality. But he would do his duty to the last tittle of strength,—fall battling for the right,—and as to what should come after, God would care for that.The fifteenth of May had been set for his assassination. On that day, risings were to take place in Yorkshire and Sussex; London was to be set on fire, the Protector seized and murdered, and Charles Stuart land on the southern coast. Cromwell knew all the secret plans of this conspiracy of "The Sealed Knot"; knew every member of it; and on the afternoon when Jane Swaffham saw him passing up London streets, so stern and scornful, he had just ordered the arrest of one hundred of them. From these he selected fifteen for trial. They were all Royalists; he would not lay his hand on his old friends, or on any who had once served the Cause. His mercy and his great heart were never so conspicuous as at this time. Only two of the fifteen were condemned to death, Doctor Hewitt, an Episcopal minister, and Sir Henry Slingsby, the uncle of Lord Fanconbridge, who was the husband of his own daughter, Mary;—Doctor Hewitt for issuing commissions in Charles Stuart's name, and Sir Henry Slingsby for endeavouring to bribe the city of Hull to open its gates to the Stuart invaders. Against Doctor Hewitt his anger burned with unusual severity; he would listen to no intercession for him; for, he said,"The man has eat my bread, and sat on my hearth, and been a familiar friend of my family. He has been in all our confidences; he has dipped his sop in our dish, and cried 'Hail, master' to me. Like the wickedest of traitors, he betrayed me, even while he called me friend. He shall die the death of a traitor, both to England and to myself."But though dark clouds from every side were rolling up, they were lit and edged with the fiery glory of the setting sun behind them. Cromwell's troops, under Lockhart in France, were treading their old victorious march, and the flowers of June were wreathed for the taking of Dunkirk, where the Ironsides had stormed unbreached forts and annihilated Spanish battalions, to the amazement of Turenne, Condé and Don John.Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had closer interests. The ship which was to carry Cluny and herself to America was lying at her wharf nearly ready for sea. It was a stout vessel belonging to Sir Thomas Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill and great piety. There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and Jane alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home for many weeks, perhaps months. A recent experience had proven the necessity for this exclusion of strange elements. Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to bid farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both men severely. A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in the grave his little grandson, Oliver, and the child's image still lived in his troubled eyes. He could scarcely speak when he saw Cluny. He waived impatiently all ceremony, drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it was quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation on his past misery. His excitement became painful to witness, and Cromwell with quick, kind wisdom, began to speak rather of his own great sorrow."You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad my Oliver was. I cannot yet believe that he is dead; I cannot. Only a week ago, when he was ill and restless, I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his cheek was against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly I felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and so caught his last smile. I thought that night my heart would break; but the consolations of God are not small, and I shall go to the boy, though he will never come back to me. Never! Never! His mother is now very ill; you would pity her, indeed you would. Cluny, you remember the Lady Elizabeth Claypole?""My General, I shall never forget her.""I do fear she is sick unto death. Her little Oliver's removal has been the last blow of the last enemy. You may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I do indeed; I am a man of many afflictions. But it is the Lord; let Him do whatever seemeth good in His sight." He then went to a desk and wrote a few lines to the officials of the Massachusetts Colony; in them, commending Lord Neville to their kindness and care. His hands trembled—those large strong hands—trembled as he gave the letter to Cluny. Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that was a blessing, he turned away, weeping."It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness." But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God's great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."[1][1] Wisdom of Solomon, Chap. 4, vs. 10-13.Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit that Israel thought it well to take him to see the ship which was to carry him to the solitudes of the great waters and the safety of the New World. He was impatient to be gone, but there were yet a number of small interests to be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great deal of material necessary to the building and furnishing of their future home. Every day revealed some new want not before thought of, so that it was nearing the end of June when at last all was declared finished and ready.Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old friends a last farewell. It was a mournful visit. She fancied they did not care as much as she thought they might have done. In fact, the gloomy old palace was a terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own sorrows consumed their loving-kindness. Frances, in her widow's garb, could only weep and talk of her dead bridegroom. Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss of her son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's heart bleeding for both her unhappy daughters. Jane was shocked at her white, anxious face; alas, there was only too much reason for it! Whatever others thought, the wife of the great Protector knew that he was dying—dying, even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the destinies of England. Every member of this sad family was in sore trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even friendship was too large a claim upon them.Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain and Sorrow. She remained only one night, and was as willing to leave it as the sad dwellers therein were willing to be left. They were not unkind, but they could bear no more; their own burden was too heavy. Jane would have regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the changeless tenderness of the Protector. His face during these quick gathering trials had become intensely human. It was easy to read in it endless difficulties and griefs, surmounted by endless labours and importunate prayers. With strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his heart's constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Thee!" He talked to Jane of Cluny and of their prospects; made her kneel at his side during the family service, kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny by name. And at the last moment he gave her the blessing she hoped for—"God which dwelleth in heaven prosper your journey; and the angel of God keep you company."[2][2] Tobit, Chap. 5, v. 16.The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the place was too heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to feel the sunshine and the fresh wind. She had intended to call on Matilda as she passed through the city, but she could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless foreboding that had invaded her mind. It bred fears for Cluny, and she hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the following day. But when she reached Sandy's House, Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her hand—"Lady Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great trouble," she said. "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired, you would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair, Captain Jonson thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."So Jane went to her friend. With her, also, she found the grief Death brings."Stephen is slain!" were her first words. She could hardly utter them. But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda; she could talk to her as she could not to the ladies of Cromwell's household. She could take her in her arms and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with promises and hopes that had Divinity as their surety. And she could encourage her to talk away her trouble. "How was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?""No, thank God! He fell, as he himself could have wished, fighting the enemies of his King. He was with Condé and the Dukes of York and Gloucester before Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of those terrible Ironsides. He died shouting 'For God and King!' and Camby—one of their officers who comes from Ely—knew Stephen, and he carried him aside, and gave him water, but he died in five minutes. Camby wrote me that he said 'Mother!' joyfully, with his last breath.""Poor Stephen!""Oh, indeed 'tis very well to cry, 'poor Stephen,' when he is beyond your pity. You might have pitied him when he was alive, that would have been something to the purpose. All his short, unhappy life has been one constant battle with Puritans and poverty. Oh, how I hate those Stuarts! I am thankful to see you can weep for him, Jane. I think you ought. God knows he loved you well, and most thanklessly. And he is the last, the last de Wick. Root and branch, the de Wick tree has perished. I wish I could die also.""And Cymlin, Matilda?""I shall marry Cymlin,—at the proper time.""You may have sons and daughters.""I hope not. I pray not. I have had sorrow enough. My father and his three sons are a good ending for the house. It was built with the sword, and it has been destroyed by the sword. I want no de Wick like the men of to-day—traders and gold seekers. And if they were warriors, the old cares and fears and anxieties would be to live over again. No, Jane, the line of de Wick is finished.[3] Cymlin and I will be the last Earl and Countess de Wick. We shall go to Court, and bow to the Stuart, and be very great people, no doubt."[3] Matilda's desire was granted her.She died childless, and the landsof de Wick reverted to the Crown.As for Swaffham, Cymlin, at hisdeath, left it to the eldest son of his brotherTonbert; but the young manlonged for America, and soon sold it.During the eighteenth century itchanged hands often; but in the early yearsof the nineteenth century theold house was replaced by a modern structure,less storied but of extensiveproportions and very handsome design."And Prince Rupert?""Is a dream from which I have awakened.""But he may still be dreaming.""Rupert has many faults, but he is a man of honour. My marriage to Cymlin will be a barrier sacred to both of us. Our friendship can hold itself above endearments. You need not fear for Cymlin; Matilda de Wick will honour her husband, whether she obeys him or not. Cymlin is formed for power and splendour, and he will stand near the throne.""If there be a throne.""Of that, who now doubts? Cromwell is falling sick, and you may feel 'God save the King' in the air. If you had married Stephen, he would have been alive to join in the cry. I could weep at your obstinacy, Jane.""Let it pass, dear. I was suckled on Puritan milk. Stephen and I never could have been one. My fate was to go to the New World. When I was a little child I dreamed of it, saw it in visions before I knew that it existed. Stephen has escaped this sorrowful world and——""Oh, then, I would he were here! This sorrowful world with Stephen in it was a better world than it is without him. Jane, Jane, how he loved you!""And I loved him, as a companion, friend, brother, if you will. When you lay his body in de Wick, cast a tear and a flower on his coffin for me. God give him peace!"At length their "farewell" came. Jane dreaded it; she was sure Matilda would wear emotion to shreds and exhaustion. But it was not so. She wept, but she was solemnly silent; and the last words between them were soft and whispered, and only those sad, loving monosyllables which are more eloquent than the most fervid protestations. And so they parted, forever in this life,—and if this life were all, Death would indeed be the Conqueror. But it is not all; even through the death struggle, the Soul carries high her cup of Love, unspilled.The next afternoon Jane and Cluny rode through London streets for the last time. They were full of busy, happy people, and mingling with them all the bravery and splendid show of the great company of courtiers that were in the train of Mazarin's two nephews, the Duke of Crequin and Monsieur Mancini; Ambassadors from the King of France to congratulate Cromwell—"the most invincible of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes—" on the surrender of Dunkirk.And Jane on the previous day had heard this "most invincible of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes," declare that "he was weak and weary; that all the waves and billows of a sea of troubles had gone over him," and with tears and outstretched hands entreat his God to "give him rest from his sorrow and from his fear, and from the hard bondage wherein he had been called to serve."On the ship they found Jane's father, Doctor Verity and Sir Thomas Jevery. There were no tears at this parting, nor any signs of sorrow; every one seemed resolved to regard it as a happy and hopeful event. For, though not spoken of, there was a firm belief and promise of a meeting again in the future not very far off. Israel held his little daughter to his heart, and then laid her hand in Cluny's without a word; the charge was understood. The young husband kissed the hand, and clasped it within his own, and his eyes answered the loving father in a language beyond deception. When the last few minutes came, and the men were trooping to the anchor, Doctor Verity raised his hands, and the three or four in the dim, small cabin knelt around him; and so their farewell was a prayer, and their parting a blessing.Israel and Doctor Verity walked away together, and for a mile neither of them spoke a word. There is a time for speech and a time to refrain from speech, and both men were in the House of Silence for strength, each finding it in his own individual way. As they came near to Sandy's, however, Israel said,"It is a short farewell, John. It will be my turn next.""I shall go when you go.""To the Massachusetts Colony?""Yes. I am ready to go when the time comes.""It is not far off.""A few months at the longest.""He is very ill?""The foundations of his life are shaken, for he lives not in his power or his fame, or even in the work set him to do. No, no, Oliver lives in his feelings. They are at the bottom of his nature; all else is superstructure. And they have been rent and torn and shaken till the man, strong as he is, trembles in every limb. And Fairfax, as well as Lambert and others, think they can fill great Oliver's place!—no man can.""For that very reason, when he departs, I will away from England. I have no heart for another civil war. I will draw sword under no less a general than Oliver.""As I said, I go with you. I have some land, and a little home there already; and Mistress Adair has promised to marry me. She is a good woman, and not without some comeliness of person.""She is a very handsome woman, and I think surely she will make you a good wife. You have done well. Did you tell Jane this?""Yes, I told her.""My heart is heavy for England.""She knows not the day of her visitation any better than Jerusalem did.""She will bring back the Stuarts?""That is what Monk, and others with him, are after. They have been at the ears of the army, din, din, din, until their lies against Oliver have been sucked in. They have a rancorous jealousy that never sleeps, and no one can please them that is above them, whether it be Prince, Protector or God. Envy has pursued Oliver like a bird of prey. Its talons, at last, are in his heart.""Good-night, John.""Good-night, Israel. Have you told Martha?""Not yet. She will fret every day till the change comes. Why should we have a hundred frets, when a dozen may do?"But when Israel went into Martha's presence something made him change his mind. The mother had been weeping, and began to weep afresh when she saw her husband. He anticipated her sorrowful questions, and with an assumption of cheerfulness, told her what a good, brave man the captain of the ship was, and how happy and hopeful Jane and Cluny seemed to be. "It did not feel like a parting at all, Martha," he said; "and indeed there was no need for any such feeling. We are going ourselves very soon, now."The words were spoken and could not be recalled; and he stood, in a moment, ready to face the storm they might raise. He had not intended them, but what we say and what we do beyond our intention, is often more fateful and important than all our carefully prepared words or well laid plans. Martha looked at her husband with speechless wonder and distress, and he was more moved by this attitude than by her usual garrulous anger. He sat down by her side and took her hand, saying,"My dear Martha, I did not think of telling you this just yet, and especially to-day, but the words were at my lips, and then they were out, without my leave or license. Now there is nothing for it, but letting you know, plump and plain, that you and I, in our gathering years, must up and out of England. Oliver Cromwell is dying; when he is in the grave, what? Either Stuart, or civil war. If it is the Stuart, my head will be wanted; and as for fighting for Lambert, or even Fairfax or Sir Harry Vane, I will not do it—verily, I will not! I have fought under Cromwell; I will fight under no less a general, and in no less a quarrel than he led in. That is settled. You said Martha, 'for better, or for worse.'"She did not answer, and he dropped her hand and continued, "I will never force thee, Martha, not one step. If thou lovest England better than me——""I don't! I don't, Israel! I love nothing, I love nobody better than Israel Swaffham. I was thinking of Swaffham.""I shall sign the sale of it to Cymlin as soon as Cromwell dies. The deed is already drawn out, and waiting for our names. If the Stuart comes back—and I believe he will—I should lose Swaffham, as well as my life; but Cymlin will marry Matilda, and make obeisance to Charles Stuart, and the old home will be in the family and keep its own name. I and thou can build another Swaffham; thou art but fifty, and my years are some short of sixty. We are in the prime of life yet.""I am forty-eight,—not quite that,—Israel; and Swaffham was very up and down, and scarce a cupboard in it. I do miss my boys; and how I can bear life without Jane, I don't know. Wherever you go, Israel, I will go; your God is my God, and your country shall be mine.""I was sure of that, Martha. God love you, dearest! And any country where your home is built, and your children dwell, is a good country; besides which, this New World is really a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Tonbert and Will could not be bought back here with an earldom. There is another thing, Martha, both of them are going to be married.""Married! I never heard of such a thing.""I thought I wouldn't tell thee, till needs be; but 'tis so, sure enough.""And to what kind of women, Israel?""Good, fair women, they tell me; sisters, orphan daughters of the Rev. John Wilmot. Thou seest, then, Martha, there may soon be three families coming up, and not a grandmother among them to look after the children, or give advice to the young mothers. I don't see what Tonbert's wife, or Will's wife, or thy own daughter Jane can do without thee."She shook her head slightly, but looked pleased and important. The wife and mother was now completely satisfied. And Martha Swaffham was blessed with imagination. She could dream of her new home, and new ties, and give herself, even in London streets, a Paradise in the unknown New World. And, at any rate, in the building of the American Swaffham she would take care that there were plenty of cupboards. Indeed, her plans and purposes were so many, and so much to her liking, that Israel was rather hampered by her expansive hopes and ideas; and though he did not damp her enthusiasm by telling her "she was reckoning without her host," he himself was quite sure there would be many trials and difficulties to tithe her anticipations."But it is bad business going into anticipation," he said to himself. "I'll let Martha build and arrange matters in her mind as she wants them; things will be all the likelier to happen so; I have noticed that time and time again. It will be a great water between us, and the sins and sorrows of six thousand years; and if there be a Paradise on earth, it will be where man hasn't had time to turn it into a—something worse."So the summer days went on, and England had never been so serene and so secure in her strength and prosperity. Throughout the land the farmer was busy in his meadows making hay, and watching the green wheat blow yellow in the warm winds and sunshine. The shepherds were on the fells counting the ewes and their lambs; the traders busy in their shops; the ports full of entering and departing vessels, and the whole nation yet in a mood of triumph over the acquisition of Dunkirk. Cromwell was working feverishly, and suffering acutely. His favourite child, the Lady Elizabeth Claypole was still very ill; he had premonitions and visions of calamity that filled his heart with apprehension, and kept his soul always on the alert, watching, watching for its coming. It might be that he alone could meet it and ward it away from those he loved.It is certain also that he knew the time for his own departure was at hand. He said to Doctor Verity, "I have one more fight, John. Dunbar was a great victory; Worcester was a greater one; but my next fight will give me the greatest victory of all—'the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.' Do you understand?" And the Doctor made a movement of affirmation; he could not speak.Wonderful was the labour the Protector now performed. He directed and settled the English affairs in France; he arranged the government of the new English plantations in Jamaica and the West Indies; and he paid particular attention to the needs and condition of the New England Colonies, being indeed their protector, and the only English protector they ever had. He took time to enunciate to France, more strongly than ever before, the rights of all the Protestants in Europe; and he made all preparations for calling another Parliament to consider, and settle more firmly, the business of the English Commonwealth. His work was a stupendous one, and through it all he showed constantly the feverish haste of a man who has a great task to perform and sees the sun dropping to the western horizon. But his heart bore the heaviest share of the heavy burden. It was as if Death knew that this man's soul could only be delivered from the flesh by attacking the citadels of feeling. In every domestic and social relation—son, husband, father, friend—the tenderness of his nature made him suffer; and when on the twenty-third of July Lady Claypole's illness showed fatal symptoms, he dropped all business, and for fourteen days and nights hardly left her presence. And her death on the sixth of August was a crushing and insupportable blow.Lady Heneage, who was one of her attendants in these last terrible days, was removed in a fainting condition, when all was over, and taken to her old friend Martha Swaffham, for care and consolation. The two women had drifted apart during the past four years, but there was only love between them, and they reverted at once to their old affectionate familiarity. And such sorrow as that affecting Lady Heneage, is soon soothed by kind companionship and sympathetic conversation. She had much to tell that Martha Swaffham was eager to listen to, though the matter of all was suffering and death."The Lord Protector was really her nurse," she said. "When her mother fainted, and her husband and sisters could not look on her sufferings, her father held her in his arms, bore every pang with her and prayed, as I hope, Martha, I may never hear any one pray again. It was as if he clung to the very feet of God, entreating that he, and he alone, might bear the agony; that the cup of pain might pass from his child to him—and this for fourteen days, Martha. I know not how he—how we—endured it. We were all at the last point, when suddenly, a wonderful peace filled the chamber, and the poor Lady Elizabeth lay at ease, smiling at her father as he wiped the death sweat from her brow and whispered in her ear words which none but the dying heard. At the last moment, she tried to say, 'Father, but only managed one-half the word; the other half she took into heaven with her. It is now the sixth of August, is it not, Martha?""Yes.""The Protector will not live long, I think. I heard him tell her they would not be parted a space worth counting.""He would say that much for her comfort. He meant it not in respect of his own days; no life is a space worth counting—'of few days and full of trouble, Alice.' How is her Highness, Elizabeth Cromwell?""Very quiet and resigned. Blow upon blow has benumbed her. She looks as if she had seen something not to be spoken of. Lady Mary Fanconberg says the family ought to leave Hampton Court; there is a feeling about the place both unhappy and unnatural. I felt it. Every one felt it, even the soldiers on guard."After the death of his beloved daughter Elizabeth, the life of Cromwell was like the ending of one of those terrible Norse Sagas with the additional element of a great spiritual conflict. He was aware of his own apparition at his side; the air was full of omens; he felt the menace of some shadowy adversary in the dark; he saw visions; he dreamed beyond nature; he had, at times, the wild spirits of a fey man, and again was almost beside himself with unspeakable grief. Israel Swaffham was constantly with him. The two men were friends closer than brothers. They had loved each other when boys, and their love had never known a shadow."But I am in great trouble about him," said Israel to his wife. "It cannot last. Since Lady Claypole's death he eats not, drinks not, sleeps not; his strong, masculine handwriting, the very mirror of his courageous spirit, has become weak and trembling. He lives much alone, keeps from his family as if he feared they might be in danger from his danger. And he thinks and thinks, hour after hour; and 'tis thinking that is killing him. I can tell you one thing, Martha, a thinking soul is always sorrowful enough, but when it is a great soul like Oliver's, and it is wretched for any cause, then every thought draws blood.""For such dismal thought and feeling there is the Holy Scriptures.""Yes, yes, Oliver knows the Comforter, and sometimes there is a message for him. Last night he made Harvey read him the fourth of Philippians, and he said when he had listened to it, 'This Scripture did once save my life when my eldest son died, which went as a dagger to my heart, indeed it did;' then, with a great joy he repeated the words, 'I can do all things through Christ which strengthened! me;' adding, 'He that was Paul's Christ, is my Christ too!'"Cromwell had hoped that his great afflictions would bring his friends back to his side; but envy, hatred and greedy ambition are not to be conciliated. Even at this time, Ludlow, Lambert, Vane, Harrison, Marten,—all the men whom he had trusted, and who had trusted him, stood aloof from his sorrow; and their sullen indifference wounded him to the quick. He had a burning fever both of the body and soul, but in two weeks he gathered a little strength and left Hampton Court for Whitehall. His unfinished work drove at him like a taskmaster. He must make great haste, for he knew that the night was coming."I am glad he is back in Whitehall," said Martha to her husband, when she heard of the change. "I remember something that Jane said about that old, gloomy Court; he will get better in London.""I know not, Martha," answered Israel sadly; "Fairfax was with him to-day, and he might as well have drawn his sword on his old friend,—better and kinder had he done so.""Fairfax is proud as Lucifer. What did he want?""The Duke of Buckingham has been sent to the Tower—where he ought to have been sent long ago; but he is married to the daughter of Fairfax, and the haughty Lord General went to see Cromwell about the matter. He met him in the gallery at Whitehall and asked that the order for Buckingham's arrest should be retracted. And Cromwell told him that if the offense were only against his own life, the Duke could go free that hour, but that he could not pardon plotters against the Commonwealth. It grieved him to the heart to say these words, and Fairfax saw how ill and how troubled he looked. But he had not one word of courtesy; he turned abruptly and cocked his hat, and threw his cloak under his arm in that insolent way he was ever used to when in his tempers. And Oliver looked at me like a man that has been struck in the face by a friend. Then he went to his desk and worked faithfully, inexorably, all day;—but—but——""But what, Israel?""It is near—the end."Indeed, this interview with Fairfax seemed to be the last heart-weight he could carry. That night, the man who had been used to shelter his dove-like wife from every trouble in his strong heart, laid his head upon her shoulder and said pitifully, "O Elizabeth, I am the wretchedest creature! Speak some words of hope and peace to me." Then she soothed and comforted him from the deep wells of her tenderness, and never once put into words the fearful thought which lay deep in her heart—"What will become of me when he is gone?" But Oliver had this same anxious boding, and he managed that night to tell his wife that if God, in mercy, called him on the sudden, Israel Swaffham had his last words and advices for her,—words that would then be from Oliver in heaven to Elizabeth on earth. They spoke of their old, free, happy life; of their sons and daughters both here and there, and mingled for the last time their tears and prayers together."Let us trust yet in God, dear Oliver," she said, as they rose from their knees; "is He not sufficient?""Trust in God!" he cried. "Who else is there in the heaven above, or in the earth beneath? And as our John Milton says—"'. . . if this truth fail,The pillared firmament is rottenness,And earth's base built on stubble.'Trust in God! Indeed I do! God has not yet spoken His last word to Elizabeth and Oliver Cromwell." Then he drew her close to his heart, kissed her fondly, and said, almost with sobs, "My dearest, if I go the way of all the earth first, thou wilt never forget me?""How could I forget thee? How could I? Not in my life days! Not in my eternal days! Heart of my heart! My good, brave, true husband, Elizabeth will never forget thee, never cease to love thee and honour thee, while the Everlasting One is thy God and my God."The next day he went to his desk and began to write, but speedily and urgently called for Israel Swaffham. When he answered the call, Oliver was in great physical agony, but he took some papers from a drawer and said, "When I am no longer here, Israel, give these to my wife. Thurloe has the key to all State questions; he knows my intents and my judgments on them. And there is one more charge for you: when all is over, speak to the army for me. Tell the men to remember me while they live. Truly, I think they will. Tell them I will take love and boldness to myself, and plead for them when I am nearer to God than I am now. It may be we shall serve together again—among the hosts of the Most High. Say to them my tears hinder my last words, as indeed they do. Now let me lean on you, Israel. I am going to my last hard fight."When he reached his room, he stood a moment and looked wistfully round it. It was but a narrow chamber, but large enough for the awfully close, near conflict, that he had to fight in it,—a conflict which was to put asunder flesh and spirit, and within its few feet, with strange, strong pains deliver the Eternal out of Time, and set free his Immortal Self from the carnal prison-house of many woes in which he had suffered for more than fifty-nine years. For ten terrible days and nights the anguish of this struggle went on unceasingly, sometimes the great Combatant being "all here" and full of faith and courage, sometimes far down the shoal of life and reason, and wandering uneasily through bygone days of battle and distress and darkness. Then Israel held his burning hands, and listened, while in a voice very far off, he ejaculated such passages as had then been familiar to him:—"The shield of His mighty men is made red, the valiant men are in scarlet. The chariots shall rage in the streets—they shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings."[4] And once at the midnight when all was still he cried, "If the Lord had suffered it, then I had died on the battle-field as His Man of War, with tumult, with shouting and with the sound of the trumpet."[5]
[image]"'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"
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"'LIFT UP YOUR HEADS, O YE GATES, AND THE KING OF GLORY SHALL COME IN.'"
CHAPTER XVI
OLIVER THE CONQUEROR
"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burnsStar-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."* * * * *"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."* * * * *
"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burnsStar-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."* * * * *"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."* * * * *
"O Heart heroic, England's noblest son!
At what a perfect height thy soaring spirit burns
Star-like! and floods us yet with quickning fire."
* * * * *
* * * * *
"Cromwell is dead: a low-laid Heart of Oak."
* * * * *
* * * * *
"There the wicked cease from troubling, there the weary are at rest."
"Cheer up, Jane! You and Lord Neville will yet arrive at the height of your wishes. This is my judgment, and if it be not true, you may burn me in the ear for a rogue."
"And you will marry Cymlin?"
"Perhaps I shall, perhaps I shall not; perhaps 'tis time enough next year to consider on it."
"It would be a happy marriage."
"A happy marriage would be so much of heaven that I think it was never enjoyed in this world. 'Tis a weary world, I swear I often cry for myself in it."
"But you will marry Cymlin?"
"Faith, I know not how I am to help the catastrophe! But in all sobriety, I think Cymlin loves me, and you do, too, dear Jane! Oh, I could weep my eyes dry when I think of your dear lover, and all he has so innocently suffered. It is intolerable!"
In her way, Matilda was doing her best to console and encourage Jane as they talked over the sad fate of her rescued lover. Both had been weeping, and there was a more affectionate confidence between them than had existed for many years.
But Matilda had cancelled every fault and every unkindness by her prompt action in the matter of Lord Neville, and Jane had been loving and praising her for it, until the sweetness of their first affection was between them. And Matilda enjoyed praise; she liked the appreciation of her kind deed, and was not therefore disposed to make light or little of what she had done, or of its results.
"For your sake, Jane," she said, "I could not have a moment's peace, after hearing where the jewels were. I said to myself, this is the clue to Neville's fate, and it must be followed. Though my uncle would not interfere, I was resolved to bring the great Cardinal to catechism; and as I knew no one in the world would dare to question him but Cromwell, I went to Cromwell."
"It was a wonderful thing for you to do."
"It was; I must give myself so much credit. Not that I am afraid of Cromwell, or of any other man, but it was a great humiliation."
"Cromwell would not humiliate you; I am sure of that."
"He behaved very well. He knew I had had a share in every plot against him; and he gave me one look so swift, so searching, and so full of reproach, that it sticks like an arrow in my heart yet. But there were old memories between us, and anon he was as gentle as my mother with me. I will never try to injure him again,—never!"
"It is impossible to tell you how grateful Cluny and I are to you; I think no other woman in England would have been so forgetful of herself, and so brave for others."
"Perhaps not, Jane. But I love you, and I love justice and mercy, even to an enemy. I can always be brave with a good reason. And, pray, how comes my lord on towards recovery?"
"Slowly. Life was nearly gone; body and mind were at death's door; but he can walk a little now, and in two or three weeks we are going away,—far away,—we are going to my brothers in the Massachusetts Colony."
"Jane Swaffham! I will not believe you! And pray what shall I do? You shall not think of such a thing."
"It is necessary. Cluny's mental sufferings have made it so. When he was first imprisoned he tried to write, to compose hymns and essays, to make speeches, to talk aloud; but as time went on, he could not keep control of himself and of his awful circumstances, and now all the misery of those long, dark, lonely years has settled into one idea,—space without end. The rooms are too small. He walks to the walls and trembles. He throws open the doors and windows that he may have room to breathe. In the night he wakes with a cry, he feels as if he were smothering. If he goes into the garden he shrinks from the gates; and the noise of the city, and the sight of the crowds passing fills him with fear and anxiety. He wants to go where there are no limits, no men who may hate and imprison him; and his physician says, 'Let him live for weeks, or months, out on the ocean.' This is what he needs, and he is eager to get away."
"You will come back?"
"I think it is unlikely. Father feels a change approaching. The Protector's health is failing rapidly; he is dying, Matilda, dying of the injustice and ingratitude he meets on every hand. 'Wounded,' yes slain, 'in the house of my friends,' is his constant cry."
"'Tis most strange that a man of war like Oliver Cromwell should care what his friends think or say."
"Yet he does. When he speaks to father about Harrison, Lambert, Alured, Overton and others of his old companions, he wrings his hands and weeps like a woman; or else he protests against them in such angry sorrow as distresses one to see and hear it."
"He ought to know that he has been raised above the love of men who are less noble than himself, and that if beyond and above their love, then they will hate and abuse him. If he dies?——"
"Father will leave England as soon as Cromwell is in his grave. Cymlin will keep old Swaffham fair, for Cymlin will never leave England while you are in it."
"And you can bear to talk of leaving England in that calm way, without tears and without regrets. Jane, it is shameful; it is really wicked."
"I do not leave England without tears and regrets, but there is Cluny, and——"
"Cluny, of course. I suppose you will be married before you leave. But I have a mind not to be your bridesmaid, though I am promised to that office ever since I was a maid in ankle tights."
"Dear Matilda, do not be angry at me because I had to do what I had to do. I was married to Cluny three days after he came home. We all thought he was going to die, and he wished me to be his wife."
"Why was I not sent for? I would have come, Jane. It was cruel wrong in you to pass me by."
"We were married by Doctor Verity at Cluny's bedside. No one was present but my father and mother and the three servants to whom Cluny had become accustomed. He was then frightened at every strange face."
"After this, nothing can astonish me. I was not a stranger——"
"He would not have recognised you, then."
"How could he lose himself so far? He ought to have had more courage. Why did he not do something or other?"
"Oh, Matilda, what would you have done in a room eight feet by ten, and in the dark most of the time—your bread and water given without a word—your attendant deaf and dumb to you—no way to tell the passage of time—no way of knowing how the seasons went, but by the more severe cold—if you had been, like Cluny, really buried alive, what would you have done?"
"I would have died."
"Cluny composed psalms and hymns, and tried to sing; he did not lose heart or hope quite, the gaoler told father, for nearly four years. Then his health and strength gave out, and his heart failed, but he never ceased praying. They heard him at midnight, but Cluny did not know what hour it was. And to the last moment he kept his faith in God. He was sure God would deliver him, though He sent an angel to open the prison doors. He was expecting deliverance the day it came. He had had a message from beyond, and his mother had brought it. Now did I not do right to marry him when, and how, he wished?"
"Yes," she answered, but her face and voice showed her to be painfully affected. "Jane, I cannot bear to lose you. I shall have no one to love me, no one to quarrel with," she added.
"You will have Cymlin."
"Cymlin is Cymlin; he is not you. I will say no more. When a woman is married, all is over. She must tag after her lord, even over seas and into barbarous places. If the Indians kill you, it will be said that you were in the way of duty; but I have noticed how often people take the way they want to take, and then call it the way of Duty. I shall not marry Cymlin until he can show me the way of peace and pleasantness."
Then Jane rose to go, and Matilda tied her bonnet-strings, and straightened out her ribbons and her gloves, doing these trifling services with a long-absent tenderness that filled Jane's heart with pleasure. "Good-bye, dear!" she said with a kiss; "I will come as often as I can."
"Very kind of you, Lady Neville," answered Matilda with a curtsy and a tearful mockery; "very kind indeed! But will your ladyship consider—" then she broke down and threw her arms round Jane, and called her "a dear, sweet, little Baggage" and bade her give Cluny some messages of hope and congratulation, and so parted with her in a strange access of affection. But true friendship has these moods of the individual and would not be true without them.
Jane walked home through the city, and its busy turmoil struck her as never before. What a vain show it was!—a passing show, constantly changing. And suddenly there was the galloping of horsemen, and the crowd stood still, and drew a little aside, while Cromwell, at the head of his guards, rode at an easy canter down the street. Every man bared his head as the grand, soldierly figure passed by. He saw Jane, and a swift smile chased away for a moment the sorrowful gravity of his face. But he left behind him a penetrating atmosphere of coming calamity. All souls sensitive to spiritual influences went onward with a sigh, and the clairvoyant saw—as George Fox did—the wraith of fast approaching affliction. The man was armed from head to feet, and his sword had never failed him, but it was not with flesh and blood he had now to contend. The awful shadows of the supernatural world darkened the daylight round him, and people saw his sad face and form as through a mist, dimly feeling all the chill foreboding of something uncertain, yet of certain fatality.
His glorious life was closing like a brilliant sun setting in a stormy sky. He had been recently compelled to tell his last Parliament some bitter truths, for danger was pressing on every side. Protestants in the Grisons, in Piedmont and Switzerland, were a prey to the Spanish papists, and their helper, Pope Alexander the Seventh, and the Protestant Dutch—preferring profit to godliness—were providing ships to transport Charles Stuart and his army to English soil.
"The Marquis of Ormond, well disguised, was here on Charles Stuart's interest, only yesterday morning," he said to them. "I did send for Lord Broghill, and I said to him, 'There is an old friend of yours lodging in Drury Lane at the papist surgeon's. It would be well for him if he were gone.' And gone he is." Then with withering scorn he added, "All this is your doing. You will have everything too high or too low. You don't want a settlement. You are tampering with the army. You are playing the King of Scot's game, helping him in his plans of invasion. You have put petitions through the city to draw London into rebellion. You are plotting for a Restoration. I know these things, I do know them, and I say you have laid upon me a burden too heavy for any poor creature. For I sought not this place. You sought me for it. You brought me to it. I say this before God, angels and men! But I took my oath to see all men preserved in their rights, and by the grace of God I will—I must—see it done. And let God be judge between you and me!"
Many cried "Amen," as they filed out of the ancient halls, chagrined and troubled under his stinging rebuke. And Cromwell felt for the first time the full weight of the refractory kingdom whose government he must bear alone.
He was right; it was too heavy a burden for any one man, and the burden was made still more heavy by his family afflictions. His beloved mother had left him, gone the way of all the earth, saying with her last breath, "I leave my heart with thee, dear son! a good-night!" His son-in-law, Rich, the three months' bridegroom of his "little Frankie," was but a few weeks dead, and the Earl of Warwick, his firmest friend among the nobility, was dying. His favourite daughter, Elizabeth, was very ill, and he himself was feeling unmistakable premonitions of his dissolution. For, day by day, his soul was freeing itself from the ligaments of the body, rising into a finer air, seeing right and wrong with the eyes of immortality. But he would do his duty to the last tittle of strength,—fall battling for the right,—and as to what should come after, God would care for that.
The fifteenth of May had been set for his assassination. On that day, risings were to take place in Yorkshire and Sussex; London was to be set on fire, the Protector seized and murdered, and Charles Stuart land on the southern coast. Cromwell knew all the secret plans of this conspiracy of "The Sealed Knot"; knew every member of it; and on the afternoon when Jane Swaffham saw him passing up London streets, so stern and scornful, he had just ordered the arrest of one hundred of them. From these he selected fifteen for trial. They were all Royalists; he would not lay his hand on his old friends, or on any who had once served the Cause. His mercy and his great heart were never so conspicuous as at this time. Only two of the fifteen were condemned to death, Doctor Hewitt, an Episcopal minister, and Sir Henry Slingsby, the uncle of Lord Fanconbridge, who was the husband of his own daughter, Mary;—Doctor Hewitt for issuing commissions in Charles Stuart's name, and Sir Henry Slingsby for endeavouring to bribe the city of Hull to open its gates to the Stuart invaders. Against Doctor Hewitt his anger burned with unusual severity; he would listen to no intercession for him; for, he said,
"The man has eat my bread, and sat on my hearth, and been a familiar friend of my family. He has been in all our confidences; he has dipped his sop in our dish, and cried 'Hail, master' to me. Like the wickedest of traitors, he betrayed me, even while he called me friend. He shall die the death of a traitor, both to England and to myself."
But though dark clouds from every side were rolling up, they were lit and edged with the fiery glory of the setting sun behind them. Cromwell's troops, under Lockhart in France, were treading their old victorious march, and the flowers of June were wreathed for the taking of Dunkirk, where the Ironsides had stormed unbreached forts and annihilated Spanish battalions, to the amazement of Turenne, Condé and Don John.
Jane heard constantly of these events, but her heart had closer interests. The ship which was to carry Cluny and herself to America was lying at her wharf nearly ready for sea. It was a stout vessel belonging to Sir Thomas Jevery, commanded by a captain of tried skill and great piety. There were to be no other passengers; Cluny and Jane alone were to find in its black-ribbed cabin their home for many weeks, perhaps months. A recent experience had proven the necessity for this exclusion of strange elements. Early in June, Israel had taken Cluny to bid farewell to his old General, and the meeting had tried both men severely. A few days previous, Cromwell had laid in the grave his little grandson, Oliver, and the child's image still lived in his troubled eyes. He could scarcely speak when he saw Cluny. He waived impatiently all ceremony, drew him to his breast and kissed him; but it was quickly evident Cluny could not bear any conversation on his past misery. His excitement became painful to witness, and Cromwell with quick, kind wisdom, began to speak rather of his own great sorrow.
"You know, Israel," he said, "how sweet a little lad my Oliver was. I cannot yet believe that he is dead; I cannot. Only a week ago, when he was ill and restless, I lifted him and carried him to and fro, and his cheek was against my cheek, and his arms around my neck, and suddenly I felt them slip away, and I looked at the child, and so caught his last smile. I thought that night my heart would break; but the consolations of God are not small, and I shall go to the boy, though he will never come back to me. Never! Never! His mother is now very ill; you would pity her, indeed you would. Cluny, you remember the Lady Elizabeth Claypole?"
"My General, I shall never forget her."
"I do fear she is sick unto death. Her little Oliver's removal has been the last blow of the last enemy. You may pity me, Cluny; I need pity, I do indeed; I am a man of many afflictions. But it is the Lord; let Him do whatever seemeth good in His sight." He then went to a desk and wrote a few lines to the officials of the Massachusetts Colony; in them, commending Lord Neville to their kindness and care. His hands trembled—those large strong hands—trembled as he gave the letter to Cluny. Then he kissed him once more, and with a "Farewell" that was a blessing, he turned away, weeping.
"It is another friend gone," he said mournfully to his own heart; "lover and friend are put far from me and mine acquaintance into darkness." But he went straight to his daughter Elizabeth, and talked to her only of God's great love and goodness, and of the dear boy who had been taken from them because "he pleased God; because he was beloved of God, so that living among sinners he was translated; yea, speedily was he taken away, lest wickedness should alter his understanding or deceit beguile his soul; and being made perfect in a short time, fulfilled a long time."[1]
[1] Wisdom of Solomon, Chap. 4, vs. 10-13.
Cluny was so much troubled and affected by this visit that Israel thought it well to take him to see the ship which was to carry him to the solitudes of the great waters and the safety of the New World. He was impatient to be gone, but there were yet a number of small interests to be attended to; for they were to carry with them a great deal of material necessary to the building and furnishing of their future home. Every day revealed some new want not before thought of, so that it was nearing the end of June when at last all was declared finished and ready.
Then Jane went to Hampton Court to bid her old friends a last farewell. It was a mournful visit. She fancied they did not care as much as she thought they might have done. In fact, the gloomy old palace was a terrible House of Mourning, and the Cromwells' own sorrows consumed their loving-kindness. Frances, in her widow's garb, could only weep and talk of her dead bridegroom. Lady Claypole was dumb under the loss of her son and her own acute suffering, and Mrs. Cromwell's heart bleeding for both her unhappy daughters. Jane was shocked at her white, anxious face; alas, there was only too much reason for it! Whatever others thought, the wife of the great Protector knew that he was dying—dying, even while he was ruling with a puissant hand the destinies of England. Every member of this sad family was in sore trouble; they could find no words of mere courtesy; even friendship was too large a claim upon them.
Jane felt keenly all the anguish in this palace of Pain and Sorrow. She remained only one night, and was as willing to leave it as the sad dwellers therein were willing to be left. They were not unkind, but they could bear no more; their own burden was too heavy. Jane would have regretted her visit altogether, had it not been for the changeless tenderness of the Protector. His face during these quick gathering trials had become intensely human. It was easy to read in it endless difficulties and griefs, surmounted by endless labours and importunate prayers. With strange, mystical eyes he walked continuously the long rooms and corridors, ever seeking the realisation of his heart's constant cry, "Oh, that I knew where I might find Thee!" He talked to Jane of Cluny and of their prospects; made her kneel at his side during the family service, kept her hand in his, and prayed for her and Cluny by name. And at the last moment he gave her the blessing she hoped for—"God which dwelleth in heaven prosper your journey; and the angel of God keep you company."[2]
[2] Tobit, Chap. 5, v. 16.
The strain had been great; the very atmosphere of the place was too heavy with grief to breathe; she was glad to feel the sunshine and the fresh wind. She had intended to call on Matilda as she passed through the city, but she could not throw off the lassitude of hopeless foreboding that had invaded her mind. It bred fears for Cluny, and she hastened home, resolving to see Matilda on the following day. But when she reached Sandy's House, Mrs. Swaffham met her with a letter in her hand—"Lady Jevery asks you to come to Matilda, who is in great trouble," she said. "Cluny is asleep; if you are not too tired, you would better go at once, for if the wind keep fair, Captain Jonson thinks to lift anchor to-morrow night."
So Jane went to her friend. With her, also, she found the grief Death brings.
"Stephen is slain!" were her first words. She could hardly utter them. But Jane knew how to comfort Matilda; she could talk to her as she could not to the ladies of Cromwell's household. She could take her in her arms and say all kinds of loving words, blending them with promises and hopes that had Divinity as their surety. And she could encourage her to talk away her trouble. "How was Stephen slain?" she asked, "in a duel?"
"No, thank God! He fell, as he himself could have wished, fighting the enemies of his King. He was with Condé and the Dukes of York and Gloucester before Dunkirk, and was killed while meeting the rush of those terrible Ironsides. He died shouting 'For God and King!' and Camby—one of their officers who comes from Ely—knew Stephen, and he carried him aside, and gave him water, but he died in five minutes. Camby wrote me that he said 'Mother!' joyfully, with his last breath."
"Poor Stephen!"
"Oh, indeed 'tis very well to cry, 'poor Stephen,' when he is beyond your pity. You might have pitied him when he was alive, that would have been something to the purpose. All his short, unhappy life has been one constant battle with Puritans and poverty. Oh, how I hate those Stuarts! I am thankful to see you can weep for him, Jane. I think you ought. God knows he loved you well, and most thanklessly. And he is the last, the last de Wick. Root and branch, the de Wick tree has perished. I wish I could die also."
"And Cymlin, Matilda?"
"I shall marry Cymlin,—at the proper time."
"You may have sons and daughters."
"I hope not. I pray not. I have had sorrow enough. My father and his three sons are a good ending for the house. It was built with the sword, and it has been destroyed by the sword. I want no de Wick like the men of to-day—traders and gold seekers. And if they were warriors, the old cares and fears and anxieties would be to live over again. No, Jane, the line of de Wick is finished.[3] Cymlin and I will be the last Earl and Countess de Wick. We shall go to Court, and bow to the Stuart, and be very great people, no doubt."
[3] Matilda's desire was granted her.She died childless, and the landsof de Wick reverted to the Crown.As for Swaffham, Cymlin, at hisdeath, left it to the eldest son of his brotherTonbert; but the young manlonged for America, and soon sold it.During the eighteenth century itchanged hands often; but in the early yearsof the nineteenth century theold house was replaced by a modern structure,less storied but of extensiveproportions and very handsome design.
"And Prince Rupert?"
"Is a dream from which I have awakened."
"But he may still be dreaming."
"Rupert has many faults, but he is a man of honour. My marriage to Cymlin will be a barrier sacred to both of us. Our friendship can hold itself above endearments. You need not fear for Cymlin; Matilda de Wick will honour her husband, whether she obeys him or not. Cymlin is formed for power and splendour, and he will stand near the throne."
"If there be a throne."
"Of that, who now doubts? Cromwell is falling sick, and you may feel 'God save the King' in the air. If you had married Stephen, he would have been alive to join in the cry. I could weep at your obstinacy, Jane."
"Let it pass, dear. I was suckled on Puritan milk. Stephen and I never could have been one. My fate was to go to the New World. When I was a little child I dreamed of it, saw it in visions before I knew that it existed. Stephen has escaped this sorrowful world and——"
"Oh, then, I would he were here! This sorrowful world with Stephen in it was a better world than it is without him. Jane, Jane, how he loved you!"
"And I loved him, as a companion, friend, brother, if you will. When you lay his body in de Wick, cast a tear and a flower on his coffin for me. God give him peace!"
At length their "farewell" came. Jane dreaded it; she was sure Matilda would wear emotion to shreds and exhaustion. But it was not so. She wept, but she was solemnly silent; and the last words between them were soft and whispered, and only those sad, loving monosyllables which are more eloquent than the most fervid protestations. And so they parted, forever in this life,—and if this life were all, Death would indeed be the Conqueror. But it is not all; even through the death struggle, the Soul carries high her cup of Love, unspilled.
The next afternoon Jane and Cluny rode through London streets for the last time. They were full of busy, happy people, and mingling with them all the bravery and splendid show of the great company of courtiers that were in the train of Mazarin's two nephews, the Duke of Crequin and Monsieur Mancini; Ambassadors from the King of France to congratulate Cromwell—"the most invincible of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes—" on the surrender of Dunkirk.
And Jane on the previous day had heard this "most invincible of sovereigns, the greatest and happiest of princes," declare that "he was weak and weary; that all the waves and billows of a sea of troubles had gone over him," and with tears and outstretched hands entreat his God to "give him rest from his sorrow and from his fear, and from the hard bondage wherein he had been called to serve."
On the ship they found Jane's father, Doctor Verity and Sir Thomas Jevery. There were no tears at this parting, nor any signs of sorrow; every one seemed resolved to regard it as a happy and hopeful event. For, though not spoken of, there was a firm belief and promise of a meeting again in the future not very far off. Israel held his little daughter to his heart, and then laid her hand in Cluny's without a word; the charge was understood. The young husband kissed the hand, and clasped it within his own, and his eyes answered the loving father in a language beyond deception. When the last few minutes came, and the men were trooping to the anchor, Doctor Verity raised his hands, and the three or four in the dim, small cabin knelt around him; and so their farewell was a prayer, and their parting a blessing.
Israel and Doctor Verity walked away together, and for a mile neither of them spoke a word. There is a time for speech and a time to refrain from speech, and both men were in the House of Silence for strength, each finding it in his own individual way. As they came near to Sandy's, however, Israel said,
"It is a short farewell, John. It will be my turn next."
"I shall go when you go."
"To the Massachusetts Colony?"
"Yes. I am ready to go when the time comes."
"It is not far off."
"A few months at the longest."
"He is very ill?"
"The foundations of his life are shaken, for he lives not in his power or his fame, or even in the work set him to do. No, no, Oliver lives in his feelings. They are at the bottom of his nature; all else is superstructure. And they have been rent and torn and shaken till the man, strong as he is, trembles in every limb. And Fairfax, as well as Lambert and others, think they can fill great Oliver's place!—no man can."
"For that very reason, when he departs, I will away from England. I have no heart for another civil war. I will draw sword under no less a general than Oliver."
"As I said, I go with you. I have some land, and a little home there already; and Mistress Adair has promised to marry me. She is a good woman, and not without some comeliness of person."
"She is a very handsome woman, and I think surely she will make you a good wife. You have done well. Did you tell Jane this?"
"Yes, I told her."
"My heart is heavy for England."
"She knows not the day of her visitation any better than Jerusalem did."
"She will bring back the Stuarts?"
"That is what Monk, and others with him, are after. They have been at the ears of the army, din, din, din, until their lies against Oliver have been sucked in. They have a rancorous jealousy that never sleeps, and no one can please them that is above them, whether it be Prince, Protector or God. Envy has pursued Oliver like a bird of prey. Its talons, at last, are in his heart."
"Good-night, John."
"Good-night, Israel. Have you told Martha?"
"Not yet. She will fret every day till the change comes. Why should we have a hundred frets, when a dozen may do?"
But when Israel went into Martha's presence something made him change his mind. The mother had been weeping, and began to weep afresh when she saw her husband. He anticipated her sorrowful questions, and with an assumption of cheerfulness, told her what a good, brave man the captain of the ship was, and how happy and hopeful Jane and Cluny seemed to be. "It did not feel like a parting at all, Martha," he said; "and indeed there was no need for any such feeling. We are going ourselves very soon, now."
The words were spoken and could not be recalled; and he stood, in a moment, ready to face the storm they might raise. He had not intended them, but what we say and what we do beyond our intention, is often more fateful and important than all our carefully prepared words or well laid plans. Martha looked at her husband with speechless wonder and distress, and he was more moved by this attitude than by her usual garrulous anger. He sat down by her side and took her hand, saying,
"My dear Martha, I did not think of telling you this just yet, and especially to-day, but the words were at my lips, and then they were out, without my leave or license. Now there is nothing for it, but letting you know, plump and plain, that you and I, in our gathering years, must up and out of England. Oliver Cromwell is dying; when he is in the grave, what? Either Stuart, or civil war. If it is the Stuart, my head will be wanted; and as for fighting for Lambert, or even Fairfax or Sir Harry Vane, I will not do it—verily, I will not! I have fought under Cromwell; I will fight under no less a general, and in no less a quarrel than he led in. That is settled. You said Martha, 'for better, or for worse.'"
She did not answer, and he dropped her hand and continued, "I will never force thee, Martha, not one step. If thou lovest England better than me——"
"I don't! I don't, Israel! I love nothing, I love nobody better than Israel Swaffham. I was thinking of Swaffham."
"I shall sign the sale of it to Cymlin as soon as Cromwell dies. The deed is already drawn out, and waiting for our names. If the Stuart comes back—and I believe he will—I should lose Swaffham, as well as my life; but Cymlin will marry Matilda, and make obeisance to Charles Stuart, and the old home will be in the family and keep its own name. I and thou can build another Swaffham; thou art but fifty, and my years are some short of sixty. We are in the prime of life yet."
"I am forty-eight,—not quite that,—Israel; and Swaffham was very up and down, and scarce a cupboard in it. I do miss my boys; and how I can bear life without Jane, I don't know. Wherever you go, Israel, I will go; your God is my God, and your country shall be mine."
"I was sure of that, Martha. God love you, dearest! And any country where your home is built, and your children dwell, is a good country; besides which, this New World is really a land of milk and honey and sunshine. Tonbert and Will could not be bought back here with an earldom. There is another thing, Martha, both of them are going to be married."
"Married! I never heard of such a thing."
"I thought I wouldn't tell thee, till needs be; but 'tis so, sure enough."
"And to what kind of women, Israel?"
"Good, fair women, they tell me; sisters, orphan daughters of the Rev. John Wilmot. Thou seest, then, Martha, there may soon be three families coming up, and not a grandmother among them to look after the children, or give advice to the young mothers. I don't see what Tonbert's wife, or Will's wife, or thy own daughter Jane can do without thee."
She shook her head slightly, but looked pleased and important. The wife and mother was now completely satisfied. And Martha Swaffham was blessed with imagination. She could dream of her new home, and new ties, and give herself, even in London streets, a Paradise in the unknown New World. And, at any rate, in the building of the American Swaffham she would take care that there were plenty of cupboards. Indeed, her plans and purposes were so many, and so much to her liking, that Israel was rather hampered by her expansive hopes and ideas; and though he did not damp her enthusiasm by telling her "she was reckoning without her host," he himself was quite sure there would be many trials and difficulties to tithe her anticipations.
"But it is bad business going into anticipation," he said to himself. "I'll let Martha build and arrange matters in her mind as she wants them; things will be all the likelier to happen so; I have noticed that time and time again. It will be a great water between us, and the sins and sorrows of six thousand years; and if there be a Paradise on earth, it will be where man hasn't had time to turn it into a—something worse."
So the summer days went on, and England had never been so serene and so secure in her strength and prosperity. Throughout the land the farmer was busy in his meadows making hay, and watching the green wheat blow yellow in the warm winds and sunshine. The shepherds were on the fells counting the ewes and their lambs; the traders busy in their shops; the ports full of entering and departing vessels, and the whole nation yet in a mood of triumph over the acquisition of Dunkirk. Cromwell was working feverishly, and suffering acutely. His favourite child, the Lady Elizabeth Claypole was still very ill; he had premonitions and visions of calamity that filled his heart with apprehension, and kept his soul always on the alert, watching, watching for its coming. It might be that he alone could meet it and ward it away from those he loved.
It is certain also that he knew the time for his own departure was at hand. He said to Doctor Verity, "I have one more fight, John. Dunbar was a great victory; Worcester was a greater one; but my next fight will give me the greatest victory of all—'the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.' Do you understand?" And the Doctor made a movement of affirmation; he could not speak.
Wonderful was the labour the Protector now performed. He directed and settled the English affairs in France; he arranged the government of the new English plantations in Jamaica and the West Indies; and he paid particular attention to the needs and condition of the New England Colonies, being indeed their protector, and the only English protector they ever had. He took time to enunciate to France, more strongly than ever before, the rights of all the Protestants in Europe; and he made all preparations for calling another Parliament to consider, and settle more firmly, the business of the English Commonwealth. His work was a stupendous one, and through it all he showed constantly the feverish haste of a man who has a great task to perform and sees the sun dropping to the western horizon. But his heart bore the heaviest share of the heavy burden. It was as if Death knew that this man's soul could only be delivered from the flesh by attacking the citadels of feeling. In every domestic and social relation—son, husband, father, friend—the tenderness of his nature made him suffer; and when on the twenty-third of July Lady Claypole's illness showed fatal symptoms, he dropped all business, and for fourteen days and nights hardly left her presence. And her death on the sixth of August was a crushing and insupportable blow.
Lady Heneage, who was one of her attendants in these last terrible days, was removed in a fainting condition, when all was over, and taken to her old friend Martha Swaffham, for care and consolation. The two women had drifted apart during the past four years, but there was only love between them, and they reverted at once to their old affectionate familiarity. And such sorrow as that affecting Lady Heneage, is soon soothed by kind companionship and sympathetic conversation. She had much to tell that Martha Swaffham was eager to listen to, though the matter of all was suffering and death.
"The Lord Protector was really her nurse," she said. "When her mother fainted, and her husband and sisters could not look on her sufferings, her father held her in his arms, bore every pang with her and prayed, as I hope, Martha, I may never hear any one pray again. It was as if he clung to the very feet of God, entreating that he, and he alone, might bear the agony; that the cup of pain might pass from his child to him—and this for fourteen days, Martha. I know not how he—how we—endured it. We were all at the last point, when suddenly, a wonderful peace filled the chamber, and the poor Lady Elizabeth lay at ease, smiling at her father as he wiped the death sweat from her brow and whispered in her ear words which none but the dying heard. At the last moment, she tried to say, 'Father, but only managed one-half the word; the other half she took into heaven with her. It is now the sixth of August, is it not, Martha?"
"Yes."
"The Protector will not live long, I think. I heard him tell her they would not be parted a space worth counting."
"He would say that much for her comfort. He meant it not in respect of his own days; no life is a space worth counting—'of few days and full of trouble, Alice.' How is her Highness, Elizabeth Cromwell?"
"Very quiet and resigned. Blow upon blow has benumbed her. She looks as if she had seen something not to be spoken of. Lady Mary Fanconberg says the family ought to leave Hampton Court; there is a feeling about the place both unhappy and unnatural. I felt it. Every one felt it, even the soldiers on guard."
After the death of his beloved daughter Elizabeth, the life of Cromwell was like the ending of one of those terrible Norse Sagas with the additional element of a great spiritual conflict. He was aware of his own apparition at his side; the air was full of omens; he felt the menace of some shadowy adversary in the dark; he saw visions; he dreamed beyond nature; he had, at times, the wild spirits of a fey man, and again was almost beside himself with unspeakable grief. Israel Swaffham was constantly with him. The two men were friends closer than brothers. They had loved each other when boys, and their love had never known a shadow.
"But I am in great trouble about him," said Israel to his wife. "It cannot last. Since Lady Claypole's death he eats not, drinks not, sleeps not; his strong, masculine handwriting, the very mirror of his courageous spirit, has become weak and trembling. He lives much alone, keeps from his family as if he feared they might be in danger from his danger. And he thinks and thinks, hour after hour; and 'tis thinking that is killing him. I can tell you one thing, Martha, a thinking soul is always sorrowful enough, but when it is a great soul like Oliver's, and it is wretched for any cause, then every thought draws blood."
"For such dismal thought and feeling there is the Holy Scriptures."
"Yes, yes, Oliver knows the Comforter, and sometimes there is a message for him. Last night he made Harvey read him the fourth of Philippians, and he said when he had listened to it, 'This Scripture did once save my life when my eldest son died, which went as a dagger to my heart, indeed it did;' then, with a great joy he repeated the words, 'I can do all things through Christ which strengthened! me;' adding, 'He that was Paul's Christ, is my Christ too!'"
Cromwell had hoped that his great afflictions would bring his friends back to his side; but envy, hatred and greedy ambition are not to be conciliated. Even at this time, Ludlow, Lambert, Vane, Harrison, Marten,—all the men whom he had trusted, and who had trusted him, stood aloof from his sorrow; and their sullen indifference wounded him to the quick. He had a burning fever both of the body and soul, but in two weeks he gathered a little strength and left Hampton Court for Whitehall. His unfinished work drove at him like a taskmaster. He must make great haste, for he knew that the night was coming.
"I am glad he is back in Whitehall," said Martha to her husband, when she heard of the change. "I remember something that Jane said about that old, gloomy Court; he will get better in London."
"I know not, Martha," answered Israel sadly; "Fairfax was with him to-day, and he might as well have drawn his sword on his old friend,—better and kinder had he done so."
"Fairfax is proud as Lucifer. What did he want?"
"The Duke of Buckingham has been sent to the Tower—where he ought to have been sent long ago; but he is married to the daughter of Fairfax, and the haughty Lord General went to see Cromwell about the matter. He met him in the gallery at Whitehall and asked that the order for Buckingham's arrest should be retracted. And Cromwell told him that if the offense were only against his own life, the Duke could go free that hour, but that he could not pardon plotters against the Commonwealth. It grieved him to the heart to say these words, and Fairfax saw how ill and how troubled he looked. But he had not one word of courtesy; he turned abruptly and cocked his hat, and threw his cloak under his arm in that insolent way he was ever used to when in his tempers. And Oliver looked at me like a man that has been struck in the face by a friend. Then he went to his desk and worked faithfully, inexorably, all day;—but—but——"
"But what, Israel?"
"It is near—the end."
Indeed, this interview with Fairfax seemed to be the last heart-weight he could carry. That night, the man who had been used to shelter his dove-like wife from every trouble in his strong heart, laid his head upon her shoulder and said pitifully, "O Elizabeth, I am the wretchedest creature! Speak some words of hope and peace to me." Then she soothed and comforted him from the deep wells of her tenderness, and never once put into words the fearful thought which lay deep in her heart—"What will become of me when he is gone?" But Oliver had this same anxious boding, and he managed that night to tell his wife that if God, in mercy, called him on the sudden, Israel Swaffham had his last words and advices for her,—words that would then be from Oliver in heaven to Elizabeth on earth. They spoke of their old, free, happy life; of their sons and daughters both here and there, and mingled for the last time their tears and prayers together.
"Let us trust yet in God, dear Oliver," she said, as they rose from their knees; "is He not sufficient?"
"Trust in God!" he cried. "Who else is there in the heaven above, or in the earth beneath? And as our John Milton says—
"'. . . if this truth fail,The pillared firmament is rottenness,And earth's base built on stubble.'
"'. . . if this truth fail,The pillared firmament is rottenness,And earth's base built on stubble.'
"'. . . if this truth fail,
"'. . . if this truth fail,
The pillared firmament is rottenness,
And earth's base built on stubble.'
Trust in God! Indeed I do! God has not yet spoken His last word to Elizabeth and Oliver Cromwell." Then he drew her close to his heart, kissed her fondly, and said, almost with sobs, "My dearest, if I go the way of all the earth first, thou wilt never forget me?"
"How could I forget thee? How could I? Not in my life days! Not in my eternal days! Heart of my heart! My good, brave, true husband, Elizabeth will never forget thee, never cease to love thee and honour thee, while the Everlasting One is thy God and my God."
The next day he went to his desk and began to write, but speedily and urgently called for Israel Swaffham. When he answered the call, Oliver was in great physical agony, but he took some papers from a drawer and said, "When I am no longer here, Israel, give these to my wife. Thurloe has the key to all State questions; he knows my intents and my judgments on them. And there is one more charge for you: when all is over, speak to the army for me. Tell the men to remember me while they live. Truly, I think they will. Tell them I will take love and boldness to myself, and plead for them when I am nearer to God than I am now. It may be we shall serve together again—among the hosts of the Most High. Say to them my tears hinder my last words, as indeed they do. Now let me lean on you, Israel. I am going to my last hard fight."
When he reached his room, he stood a moment and looked wistfully round it. It was but a narrow chamber, but large enough for the awfully close, near conflict, that he had to fight in it,—a conflict which was to put asunder flesh and spirit, and within its few feet, with strange, strong pains deliver the Eternal out of Time, and set free his Immortal Self from the carnal prison-house of many woes in which he had suffered for more than fifty-nine years. For ten terrible days and nights the anguish of this struggle went on unceasingly, sometimes the great Combatant being "all here" and full of faith and courage, sometimes far down the shoal of life and reason, and wandering uneasily through bygone days of battle and distress and darkness. Then Israel held his burning hands, and listened, while in a voice very far off, he ejaculated such passages as had then been familiar to him:—"The shield of His mighty men is made red, the valiant men are in scarlet. The chariots shall rage in the streets—they shall seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings."[4] And once at the midnight when all was still he cried, "If the Lord had suffered it, then I had died on the battle-field as His Man of War, with tumult, with shouting and with the sound of the trumpet."[5]